Dreams on the Solstice
Lost in a terrifying waking nightmare, one man battles sleepless nights and his sanity in a desperate attempt to escape the clutches of a dark presence haunting his grandfather's old house.
I remember my grandfather once gave me a bit of advice: ‘at the end of your life,’ he told me, ‘you will meet the person you could have become.’ You will meet the maximized version of yourself, the one who made all the right choices, the one who pulled down his dreams from the starry heavens and made them a living, breathing reality. I think it was supposed to be a motivating idea (my grandfather was full of stock phrases and twice-baked aphorisms), something to drive you to do more with your life; to quit your job, go all-in on your ideas, leap feet-first into the arena and throw some punches. But after I wrote my first book, I realized how wrong he was. There is no meeting at the end of your life, with a version of yourself or anyone; there is only the void. There is only the great swallowing, the candle snuffer of eternity cleanly extinguishing the light of all your tepid emotions, your treasured, over-polished thoughts, your dim childhood memories. There is only the endless darkness that bore you for the billion-billion eons before you were born.
You see, I forced my dreams down to earth, and when they crash-landed in a heap of shattered pieces, I realized dreams are better left in the cold, austere, and distant heaven of outer space. Where they can twinkle in peace.
I was trying not to think about my editor—who left me another voicemail after I had failed to meet yet another deadline for the manuscript of my second book—when I heard that my grandfather, Wallace Moore, had passed. Excellent, I thought, the perfect excuse for my delay. I texted my editor that my dear papa had shuffled off his mortal coil and that there was no chance for me to work until the lengthy period of mourning had passed.
His response was immediate, terse, and rude. “Tom, it has been seven years. You will submit your manuscript by the end of the year or you will return your advance.”
I wanted to tell him that he should have more understanding, that I couldn’t possibly work in my grief. He didn’t need to know that I hadn’t seen my grandfather in nearly ten years. Instead, I shot back: “Happy Holidays to you, too.”
Could I finish the book in a week? Maybe. I certainly had enough words for two, maybe three novels. But they were not the right words. And the looming shadow of my first novel’s tremendous, surprising, genius-defining success cast all those words in a hopeless, pallid light. I could do it, I thought. I’ll just write a proper beginning and ending. I’ll fly to Minneapolis to manage my grandfather’s estate. While there, I’ll finish my book. It will do me good, I reasoned, to write in a new setting. Clear the cobwebs and all that.
Being away so long, I forgot how furiously winter comes to that cold, cramped city. It was already negative four when I disembarked, the wind chill dropping precipitously down to fifteen below. There were already snowbanks taller than my shoulders piled along the roads, and the half-plowed highways were slick with ice. It was going to get worse, too, for a blizzard was expected to hit the city later that evening.
My grandfather’s house was in the Kenwood neighborhood of Minneapolis, perched on a hill above the sculpture garden. His father, Samuel Moore, built the towering Edwardian house in 1905, its great curved windows looking down on the city, watching it grow through the twentieth century from a small hovel of dreary factories clutching the banks of the smoky Mississippi, to a mid-sized American city, its new skyscrapers stretching hopefully into the sky. The house was exactly as I remembered it, unchanged in the years since I had been there last. From the living room I could see the downtown lights twinkling in the cold air.
I spent that first afternoon touring the house, trying to make sense of what I needed to do, trying to hype myself up to write. I needed to decide if I wanted to keep anything, and what was worth trying to sell to a collector. I called the realtor to set up an appointment about listing the house, but with the approaching storm and the holidays right after, she said she wouldn’t be able to come until after the new year. Fine, I thought, I need to write anyway.
The house was large and drafty, its ancient heating system ill-equipped to properly warm its sprawling rooms. There was a fireplace in the study, however, and I found a stack of logs in the garage. Next to the window, my grandfather had put up a twelve-foot tall Christmas tree topped with a glittering golden angel.
I kindled a fire and spent most of the evening trying to write. Darkness stole upon me as I labored with my sentences, the glittering lights of the city dancing in the large bay windows. After three-hundred painful, arduous words, I stood up from my desk, and my ravenous hunger hit me all at once. I found my way to the kitchen and found, sitting on the countertop, a half-consumed glass of wine. That curious sight unearthed a distant, deeply-buried memory from the misty fog of childhood. When I stayed with my grandfather for Christmas, I remembered he would leave a glass of wine on the counter every night before bed. I asked my parents about his curious habit, and they admitted they didn’t know why he did it. My dad thought it was for my grandmother’s sake. She had often woken in the night to use the restroom, and he speculated that she liked to have a glass of wine to put her back to sleep. But even after my grandmother passed away, my grandfather continued the strange habit. Apparently, he had continued it up right until the night he died.
I tasted the wine, but it had a bitter, acidic bite to it, like it had spoiled. I poured it down the sink and washed out the glass. The bad wine had left me with a thirst for a good glass. Why not? I had written a few hundred words—more than I’d managed in the last few months. To reward myself, I ordered a pizza and then went down into the cellar in search of a nice bottle. There was no shortage of lovely vintages tucked away, and I emerged with two bottles of red and a white which I shoved in the fridge. I opened the first red, a 2008 Bordeaux, and took it to enjoy by the fire. It had started to snow. Large snowflakes swirled through the brown, barren trees that crowded the hillside behind the house. I finished a glass and then another, staring at the fire, watching the flames twist and turn.
Drinking, I admit, had become for me a kind of tonic—and an end. At first, it was a reward for writing, but as the writing dried up, the drinking poured forth more freely. I rewarded myself with a good cocktail at five merely for getting through another day. For the days were dreadful, each one the same as the last. It didn’t used to be like that. When my first novel came out to astonishing acclaim and soaring sales, life had a luster and a brightness to it that was almost blinding. It was dizzying, the attention, and to find yourself suddenly freed from financial constraints. It was only a few years in, after the hubbub had died down—the critical mob turning its frenzied attention to a new shining star—that I realized my previous constraints had functioned as a necessary structure, adding rhythm and routine to my days. Now, only the promise of a good glass of wine at the end of the day kept the wheels of life turning. A few drinks in, and all the tangled, insoluble problems of my second book relaxed and unraveled a bit. I still couldn’t untie the complicated threads of my narrative, but three glasses in, it didn’t matter so much. My thoughts, pleasantly clouded by wine, found, with ease, the solution—and the excuse. I will figure it out in the morning! That’s what I told myself, night after night, under the sickly pleasant, swaying sensation of booze—that all problems will shrink beneath the bright, scourging sun of the following day.
But mornings—dreadful, terrible mornings!—presented the problem anew. Nothing had been solved (it turns out). The unwritten manuscript leered at me from the desk. But the morning’s hangover presents an immediate problem, the solution of which could be seamlessly swapped for the larger, intangible one of writing. By the time the hangover is solved—with a rich breakfast, an even richer lunch, and a nap—five o’clock is nearly at hand! And all of life’s tremendous, thorny problems can so easily shrink into the countdown to the evening’s first delicious sip.
That night I sat by the fire and thought about my novel. I thought about it in that relaxed, indulgent state brought on by good wine. I poured another glass, then another, then finished the bottle. I opened the white and refreshed my glass. The warmth of the wine helped to push away the cold emptiness of that vast house so recently visited by death.
I found my grandfather’s old vinyl collection and put on a jazz record. I threw another log on the fire, the sparks flying. I danced to the music. Let all the ghosts of those haunted centuries look on! For I was alive, the wine flushing my veins, my brain buzzing with a million thoughts (most of them pleasant). I poured another glass. I danced. I thought about life, and then death, and then life again. I finished another bottle of wine.
But the night pressed close against the windows and the record ended. My wine-boosted cheer soured, turned maudlin, then overly reflective. I realized I didn’t care that my grandfather had died. Who was he? A stranger. I hadn’t even bothered to schedule a funeral. He must have had friends in the neighborhood. Yet not a single one had come to call since I arrived. Had he sequestered himself in that enormous house, withering away the decades in isolation? Was that my fate as well? I threw another log on the fire, the sparks leaping against the ash-stained bricks. Will I fade away, alone and ungrieved? Forgotten, save a first novel that flashed in the pan and then went dark? A one-trick pony?
I thought I saw someone standing by the window.
No, it couldn’t have been. I must have seen a cat. Or a mouse. A mouse seems most likely, but it was quite large. The living room kept tipping to one side, it was hard to stay upright. I struggled to find my way into the kitchen. I searched for the third bottle of wine and lifted it heavily from the counter. I hesitated. Why not? I opened it. Who was at the window? My grandfather? No, it was small, like a child. It must have been a cat. No, it was a large rat I had seen. Tomorrow, I’ll see if there are any traps in the garage.
I couldn’t handle much more wine. The house’s halls had become the tossing to-and-fro of a ship on stormy water. I topped off my glass and made my way to the guest bedroom, but I paused at the door. Oh, why not, I thought. I returned to the counter, took out a second glass, filled it with wine, and left it on the counter. “For tradition,” I said to the empty house, and I clinked my glass against the other.
I dreamed strange and terrible dreams. I was in the same house, but everything outside was bizarre. I couldn’t see the lights of Minneapolis and all the neighborhood was gone. The house was surrounded by nothing but ancient forest. Thick fog crept down from the trees, and I heard the sound of a bell ringing in the still, cold air. I stepped outside and saw a hooded figure carrying a lantern in one hand. In its other, it shook a tiny silver bell.
The figure turned into the forest and disappeared into the fog. I followed the figure for some time—how long, I couldn’t be certain—through the misty forest, hideous trees poking their clawed branches through the fog, the shivering sound of the silver bell propelling me forward. I came upon an old cabin and felt a deep dread at approaching it. For it was a crumbling, pitiful thing, rank with death and decay.
I heard the bell ringing inside, and as I approached the door, I heard a scream from within, a terrible, otherworldly shriek that soon dissolved into deep, haunting laughter. I touched the door.
And awoke.
My head was pounding, every nerve screaming at me. I felt a sickening lurch in my stomach. Too much wine. I opened the curtains, hoping that a burst of sunlight would chase away the terrible dream, but I was greeted with a wall of white. Thick snow drove furiously against the window, and I could see nothing of the world outside the house—not the city lights, not the neighboring houses, not even the woods. The blizzard had come.
I dragged myself out of bed and into the study to restart the fire. I took a couple of Advil and wandered into the kitchen in search of good hangover food. What I really wanted was a cheeseburger but I knew it would be hard to get with the storm. I pulled out eggs and bacon and went in search of bread.
Then I saw it. The glass of wine I had left the night before on the counter. It was completely empty.
The snow pummeled the house, and the wind howled its fury against he old, century-worn bricks. It was the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year, and what little light the Minnesota sun could give was swallowed by the storm.
I tried to write, but my pounding head and shot nerves kept the attempt short and fruitless. I spent the morning by the fire, nursing my hangover. The day was done—I couldn’t leave and I had neither the energy nor the nerve to try writing again.
It was hard not to think about the empty wine glass. What it could mean. The simplest solution is that I had not actually poured a glass in the evening. That in my drunken stupor, I had taken out a glass but then forget to fill it. The only other tolerable explanation was that there was someone else in the house. I realized I hadn’t even bothered to check the entire north wing, what had once been the old servant’s quarters. Had a maid of my late grandfather’s come into the house—in the dead of night, in the middle of a blizzard, to drink a glass of wine? No, it was ridiculous, but maybe there was someone else in the house. A chauffeur or a butler still living there.
I went to investigate and found the rooms dusty and freezing cold. There was no evidence that anyone had stayed there for decades. While poking through one of the rooms, I saw a small shadow dart from behind a bed and disappear into a corner of the room. Something about it reminded me of the shadow I had thought I’d seen the night before. Perhaps my grandfather had a house cat. Could a cat drink from a wine glass without knocking it over? It was hard to imagine, but maybe.
Back in the study, I threw more wood on the fire. I tried to wait until five to drink, but by three-thirty, night had come to that large, drafty, century-haunted house, and I went into the cellar for more wine. I found some old silver candles and brought them up with a few bottles. With the wine, the lit candles, the roaring fire, and the Christmas tree, I began to feel some warmth and cheer return to my body. Once again, the buzzing profusion of wine shrunk my problems down to a manageable size. If I could write five-hundred words every day for the next six days, it would be enough to finish my novel and keep my advance. In that ancient house, with the snow swirling outside, the fire roaring inside, and the wine beating its course through my weary blood, I felt like my novel would sort itself out, and that it, too, could be a hit, and send my life once again soaring in a smooth, pleasant arc.
I told myself to take it easy, not get carried away with the wine, keep myself fresh for the morning writing. But in the snap of a finger, it was two am and I found, to my disappointment, that I had once again consumed three bottles of wine. I poured a glass to my unseen cat companion (or perhaps to my ghosts), toasted the solstice, and went to bed.
I dreamed the same dream again.
The shadowy figure of night beckoned me with his bell, and I passed through the strange, mist-haunted forest until I came to the terrible ancient shack in the deep woods. I placed my hand upon the door and was able to pass through this time. I stepped across the threshold and fell. When one usually falls in a dream, it awakens you with a sharp jerk, but I did not awaken. I fell and I fell, and I felt every second of that dizzying descent. It was if I fell from an incomprehensible height deep into the bowels of the earth. Deeper and deeper I fell in darkness until I saw, at last, a flash of light. With sickening horror, I saw that I had come to a lake of fire.
I fell onto an island surrounded by lava, flames licking at the shoreline. By my feet, in the cold dark gravel, I found a chain, and I pulled at it, hoping to find some means of conveying myself back up to the surface. But what I pulled from that lake of hellfire was a monstrous, terrible ship. A naked creature with a thousand staring eyes strapped to its bow. On the boat scrambled a horde of hideous demons. Bulging black eyes and batwing ears, sharp teeth that gleamed in the fire-dancing light.
The boat came ashore, and the goblins surged onto the island, swarming over me, tearing and gnawing at my face. Piles and piles of them clambered onto me; I felt their claws rending my nose, puncturing my eyes; the weight of them pushing me into the sharp, graveled dirt. But then I saw, through the writhing, hideous mass of bodies, a towering figure looming over the fire. Its eyes were red-hot coals and burned a hatred for everything that lived under the sun. It wore a dark cloak covered with gaping, sharp-toothed mouths—millions of them, their fanged teeth fashioned into malignant grins. But worst of all, the being spoke. Its voice was the thundering laughter I had heard the night before, and it said, in a deep and terrible voice, “Forever. You will know what it means to be—forever!” Those horrible words rebounded in my skull and the goblins tore at my body, ripping the skin from my skull, crushing my ribcage, pushing me deeper and deeper into the blood-soaked, black dirt, until—at last—the dream relinquished, and I awoke.
I saw only darkness and felt, not bedsheets beneath me, but hard wood. With mounting horror, my sleep-dazed senses sharpened, and I realized I was not in my grandfather’s bed. I was not even in his house. My eyes adjusted to the gloom and I found myself laid upon the floor of a tiny, cramped shack in the middle of the woods.
It was the terrible cabin of my dreams!
I heard a shuffling sound, like a multitude of bodies clambering over themselves, and I stood up and threw open the door. The dim morning light, though dampened by the continuing storm, cast a pallid light on the interior of that accursed shack, and I saw, clustered around me, a horde of those hideous nightmare goblins—all teeth and claws and sinister eyes. I let out a scream, for the horror of what I saw pierced deeply into my soul. The dream was real! I saw those creatures in the light of waking day and I saw the words—black spell craft—etched on those centuries-old walls, and I remembered the darting shadows in my grandfather’s house, and the emptied glass of wine.
I turned and ran.
I ran through the blizzard, through the driving snow, through a white forest full of leering, half-invisible trees. I did not stop at my grandfather’s house but continued. Down the hill I ran, to the sculpture garden and past it, crossing the highway over a bridge and through the park, all the way into downtown where I caught a train and took the route straight to the airport. There I waited for the storm to end, for the first flight home.
In the airport I could breathe, for I was surrounded by people and lights that never went dark. For airports were beyond time and space—they are liminal spaces, the interior hallways of the world, where you pass from one room to another, and never linger long—‚ and in that I could find comfort. For I knew what lay outside the mortal, time-bound walls of our lives. The ancient stories could only hint at a sliver of what eternity could mean to time-cursed creatures like ourselves.
I dared not sleep. For days I sat awake and vigilant in that airport. For sleep is only a preview of the nightmare-bordered void of eternity. I knew I couldn’t write, knew I would never write another word ever again, for what was the power of imagination against a terrible booming voice that howled one simple word: forever.
I did not sleep and have not slept, still! I will never sleep, again, you see. Never, ever again! I will stay awake forever, I must stay awake forever! You cannot make me sleep, you cannot force my buzzing, teeming consciousness to quiet, because if you are able to—because if then, if then—